Murder and Gold

by Ann Aptaker

It’s pointless to ask how he knows about Vivienne. He knows because he’s made it his business to know about the lives and associations of everyone he deals with. He probably knows everyone I’ve ever said hello to, every woman I’ve ever smiled at or slept with.

  Vivienne doesn’t deserve Sig’s icy breath on her neck.

  Denying I do business with her, though, is a losing move. I’d never get away with it. Better to play the cards Sig’s dealt me and stay in the game long enough to figure how to win it. “Okay, sure, Miss Parkhurst Trent could be helpful,” I say with a shrug. I take my smokes from my pocket, light one up as a show of ease I don’t feel.

  “Good,” Sig says. “I leave you to deal with her. Maybe someone among Miss Parkhurst Trent’s contacts or among Miss Garraway’s acquaintances or employees is our killer.”

  “Eve’s acquaintances, possibly. Employees, I know of only one: her butler, Desmond Mallory. And if you know about the college girl killing, then you know the dead coed was Desmond’s daughter. Revenge is a pretty good motive for murder.”

  That gets me a scolding tsk. “Then why wait twelve years? You disappoint me, Cantor.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” I say.

  “But I’ve always expected better of you. Mallory, if you remember, was a professional in the rackets. Yes, he would have the discipline not to rush into things, but twelve years is a long time to wait to do something he could have done the minute John Garraway was no longer around to control him. And he would certainly know enough to pick a better moment to commit murder than the one this morning, when you were in the house.” Sig sits on that for a minute before he says, “Still, we cannot count him out. But you should look elsewhere, too. When you identify Miss Garraway’s killer, you will either bring this person to me or let me know where I can find them. Is that understood, Cantor?”

  You bet I understand. Sig will be judge and jury, the death sentence already decided, the quiet disposal of the body arranged. City Hall will be happy to have the matter quietly disposed of without their involvement. The only question is the manner of execution. My imagination can’t even come close.

  Sig says, “And you will have plenty of time to pursue the Garraway matter, Cantor, because you will no longer involve yourself in the Quinn killing.”

  “Did you get Huber knocked off of that case, too? Fine by me. Give it to a cop who doesn’t have me in his gun sights.”

  “Lieutenant Huber will remain on the case.”

  That gets my head up. “It seems that I have to watch my step after all. You know Huber wants to fry me for the Quinn murder. If you want me to work on the Garraway killing, Sig, you’ve got to get Huber off my back. I can’t snoop around about Garraway if I’m in jail.”

  He leans forward, his jowls catching light. His smile is small, its chill matching the amusement in his eyes, the kind that likes to pull the wings off flies or tear the limbs off people. “Then I suggest you be very careful. In the meantime, you will stop asking around about the Quinn woman, and that goes for your young Judson, too. That is all, Cantor. Good-bye.” His hand slides under his desk. A second later Mulroney comes into the den. “Cantor is leaving now, Mr. Mulroney. Please take her downstairs to the front door.”

  • • •

  My bookending thugs ride down in the elevator with me. I’m glad Mulroney and Ham Face aren’t the chatty type. I don’t need conversation clogging up my thoughts about my meeting with Sig. I try to figure what Sig is up to, why he’s protected me in the Garraway matter but thrown me into Huber’s teeth in the Quinn case. But I can’t figure it, because as usual with Sig he treats information as a commodity he owns and you don’t.

  I’m on my own.

  At the ground floor, Mulroney and Ham Face march me across the lobby to the front door of the building.

  I say, “My gun, if you don’t mind, Mulroney.”

  “Oh yeah, sure.” He takes my .38 out of his pocket, hands it over with a juicy grin that makes me glad I skipped dinner.

  • • •

  Outside, the rain’s let up to a cold drizzle, the sort that stings your face and neck. There’s no respite until I go down the subway stairs at the corner of Fortieth Street and Sixth Avenue. I shake the water off my cap, but can’t shake the chill I feel deep down in my gut. It’s not from the rain; it’s from Sig’s frosty smile when he said good-bye.

  Chapter Nine

  Back home in my apartment, a hot shower takes some of the chill from my bones. A change of clothes into a pale green pullover and a navy suit anchors me again after Sig’s double-dealing with my life. A cup of strong coffee with a hefty dollop of Chivas steadies my thoughts.

  It’s a little after nine p.m. when I pick up the phone and dial Vivienne.

  “Oh hello, Cantor. I hoped I’d hear from you.”

  I like the words. I try to catch if there’s anything more than just business behind that velvety voice. There isn’t. I’m surprised at my disappointment. “I take it you have information about Eve Garraway?” I say.

  “I do. And you know, I almost feel sorry for her. Oh— my— I guess that’s in poor taste, considering she’s dead. One can’t feel much sorrier about something than that.”

  “No, I guess not. What’s your news, Vivienne?”

  I hear sounds of a lighter snapping shut and an exhale of breath before Vivienne says, “As I suspected, the wives higher up on the social ladder despised Eve. They considered her a social upstart, a woman whose money could buy her fine clothes and good diction but could never give her genuine class. They treated her carefully, though, since a number of their husbands were indebted to her father for various favors, some of them involving money, some involving making scandals go away. They couldn’t chance angering Eve in case her father passed his secrets to his daughter.”

  “Any indication she turned the screws on any of them?”

  “You mean blackmail? Not that I know of. At least no one would admit to being blackmailed. But none of the wives I spoke to or heard about were the least bit sorry that Eve is dead, even if they found the manner of her death, well, distasteful.”

  Only a crowd with nothing more to worry about than what jewels to wear to dinner would consider murder merely distasteful. “Did any of the wives find it less distasteful than the others?”

  “Actually, yes. Dierdre Atchley. She’s the wife of—”

  “Brooks Atchley? The Park Avenue banking family Atchleys? They have a son— what’s his name? James?— an officer of the Atchley banking interests and a big deal in yachting. According to the gossip columns, the son even lives on his yacht.”

  “Yes, that’s the family. The Atchleys are very old money, very old lineage. Brooks traces his family all the way back to the English taking over New Amsterdam from the Dutch and renaming it New York. And Dierdre’s maiden name was Haddonfield. The Haddonfields are connected to English aristocracy. Landed gentry, I believe, with a pile of stones that dates back to the Tudors.”

  I make a mental note that the next time I’m in England I’ll see about purloining some of the Haddonfield family heirlooms. I don’t mention it to Vivienne. “What’s Mrs. Atchley’s beef with Eve Garraway besides social climbing? What did Eve have on her?”

  “It’s not what Eve had on Dierdre; it’s what Eve was doing to the family. Even after old John Garraway died, Eve still had influence with the politicians and legislative committees that oversee the state’s banking concerns. It wasn’t in Brooks’s interest to cross her. But maybe things came to a head, because it seems Eve has been quietly arranging proxies to buy big blocks of shares in the Atchley banking empire. Her acquisitions put Brooks in danger of being forced out of a firm his family ran for nearly three hundred years. I understand she was days away from gaining enough shares to make trouble. She really had it in for Brooks.”

  “Any idea why? What did he ever do to her?”

  “He didn’t marry her.”

  “She wanted him to divorce his wife?”

  “No.” I h
ear it through what sounds like an exhale on her cigarette. “Brooks was single at the time. Dierdre is his second wife. They’ve been married about five years. Dierdre’s first husband, Archie Westerton, died early in their marriage. Inoperable cancer, I believe. Very sad. James is her son by Westerton, though the family had his surname legally changed to Atchley in order to keep the dynasty going. Brooks was a widower, too, when he romanced Eve.”

  “Aren’t they all,” I say. That story is as popular with cheating spouses as the My wife doesn’t understand me song and dance.

  “It’s not funny, Cantor. Brooks’s first wife died in an automobile accident. Drunk driver hit her. That was about eight years ago. Brooks was despondent. It took him a long time to get back to himself, and I’m not sure he ever really did. He took up with Eve about a year after his wife’s death. But he would never marry her. Even her political power couldn’t make up for belonging to the wrong social class.”

  Bingo. There they are, those two favorite motives for murder: love and money. Only this time it’s a vicious foursome: love, money, jealousy, and revenge. The Garraway-Atchley melodrama has plenty of all of it.

  “Still,” I say, “even if Eve succeeded in forcing Atchley out of power, he was hardly a candidate for the soup kitchen. I’m sure he could retire more than comfortably.”

  “Yes, of course,” Vivienne says, “but socially the family might not have survived the humiliation. The air’s pretty thin up where they live, Cantor. A scandal could suffocate them. They’d be snubbed at the city’s better clubs, their memberships canceled. Influential people might turn their backs, and social invitations would stop coming. Suitable marriage prospects for their son could dry up.” The way Vivienne says the word suitable means that poor James might have to settle for a bride whose only listing might be a tony address in the phone book, not the Social Register.

  “I need to talk to them, Vivienne. Can you arrange something?”

  Another exhale comes through the phone. It’s a long exhale, giving Vivienne plenty of time to answer my question. It’s a habit of hers, dangling what I want of her, making me wait for it. She finally says, “I can’t let you badger them, Cantor. Dierdre is a friend of mine. She doesn’t know I’ve gathered this information about the family. If she knew, it would put me in the doghouse with her. I can’t let that happen. The Atchleys are major donors to the museum.”

  “Why, Vivienne,” I say, putting a heavy spoonful of honey into it, “you know how chivalrous I can be. I promise to put on my smoothest silk gloves before I stroke Mrs. Atchley’s cheek.”

  “Very funny,” Vivienne says. “Let me think about it.” She hangs up.

  “Don’t take too long,” I say anyway.

  I take a dry coat, a brown one, and a gray cap from the hall closet, slip them on. Where I’m going, I like to look sharp.

  • • •

  The rain’s stopped but the night air is cold and wet. I pull my coat collar up, pull the brim of my cap low, and walk down the block to where I parked my Buick. The street’s busy with people making the rounds of the neighborhood’s nightclubs, everyone’s shadow sliding around them on the pavement below the street lamps. I’m just another pedestrian and another shadow in the crowd, New York’s most protective overcoat.

  I’ve got a headful of thoughts as I weave through the throng, thoughts about women, but not my usual delicious daydreams about that beautiful sex. Tonight my mind’s tangled up with thoughts of dangerous women, women with secrets, women with reason to kill.

  • • •

  The Green Door Club, a nightspot for women of my romantic persuasion, is downstairs in an alley off Tenth Avenue near Fourteenth Street. It’s nearly ten-thirty when I walk in, give my coat and cap to the adorable blonde in the checkroom, and make my way to the bar.

  A slow tune from the band winds through the mix of chatter and laughter in the room. Conversations, some intimate, some trying to be, are whispered in red leather booths lining the walls and at white cloth’d tables around the dance floor where couples sway. Light from amber-shaded wall sconces and small lamps on the tables glints off necklaces, bracelets, earrings, lipstick and polished nails. The light sends a sheen along colorful satin dresses and the lapels of suits. A new addition, a jukebox bright with candy-colored lights, stands next to the bandstand, ready to take over when the band, an all-female three-piece combo in green organza, takes a breather. Behind the bar, bottles sparkle, promising paradise.

  I claim a bar stool, put a buck on the bar, enough to cover a drink and a tip. The bartender, Peg Monroe, pours me two fingers of Chivas without even bothering to ask. She doesn’t have to.

  Peg’s a big woman with a big heart, liquid brown eyes in a light brown face, and plenty of smarts. That big heart will go the distance for you when you’re in trouble, and her smarts will burn your lies right off your tongue. Her “Good evenin’, Slick” is as mellow as a warm Southern night through her trace of a Georgia drawl. Her strong hands in her crisp white shirt move with sureness and grace as she pours drinks and maneuvers glasses to customers along the bar.

  Coming back to me, she says, “She’s upstairs. Trouble in a purple dress.”

  “She giving you problems?”

  “No, but there’s plenty of trouble hiding in those brown eyes. She’s got cobra’s eyes, Slick. They size you up before she decides to eat you. How long you planning to stow her here?”

  “Not long, I hope. I have to get her out from under some bad business. Listen, you remember the woman I left with last night, Lorraine Quinn?”

  Peg gives me a mocking laugh that only a trusted friend can get away with. “What’s the matter, Slick? You slippin’? You didn’t get her phone number?”

  “I won’t need her phone number. She’s dead.”

  Peg’s laugh dries up fast, replaced by a look that questions me without uttering a word.

  “Knifed this morning,” I say, “right outside my building.”

  Peg leans on the bar, leans in close to me, speaks low, “And now the Law wants to tie you up in it?”

  I nod my answer, then ask, “What do you know about her, Peg? I hadn’t seen her here before last night, but that doesn’t mean she’s never been around. You got anything on her I can throw to the cops to send them in another direction?”

  “She came in once in a while,” Peg says with a shrug. “Sometimes on the arm of some sharp dresser, sometimes alone. But she didn’t stay alone long. Not surprised she took up with you, Slick. You’re her type,” she kids, fingering the lapel of my suit jacket.

  “Any of those sharp dressers stake a claim on her?” I ask.

  “You mean follow Lorraine around? Huh, couldn’t say. Why you asking? You think maybe some Jealous Jackie followed her to your place, waited until she left and shivved her?”

  “You have any Jealous Jackies in mind?”

  Peg glances around the room, stops here and there for a look at who’s wearing sharp threads, who’s in a well-chosen tie, who has the style to finish things off with a pocket square. Lorraine’s type. “No one’s ringin’ that bell, Slick. But I’ll think on it. Meantime, what about the lady upstairs? How’s she tied into this Quinn thing?” Peg’s smarts are right on the money.

  I give her a smile, lift my glass in toast to her sharp thinking. After I drain the scotch, I say, “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “Well, find out fast. I can hold her here for a while, but not too long. You know the risks.”

  “Uh-huh. If it ain’t the Mob, it’s raids, cops, morals raps, jail, the nuthouse. Nothing we can’t survive. We always have.”

  She leans over to me again. “Listen, Slick, ever think maybe it’s time to do more than just survive?”

  “Every day, Peg. Every day.”

  “Maybe it’s time you didn’t do it alone.”

  “I’m my own best protection,” I say with a discreet pat to the gun under my suit jacket.

  “What are you gonna do, Slick, shoot a cop? Shoot a jud
ge?”

  “You got a better idea when the cops rough you up and throw you in the paddy wagon? What are you gonna do, Peg?”

  “Sue ’em.”

  Leave it to Peg to give me a much needed laugh in my otherwise lousy day.

  I finish my drink, pull a fiver from my wallet for the rest of the bottle, take it with me to the end of the bar and through a door marked Employees Only. It takes me into a hallway of storage rooms, a washroom, a janitorial closet, the club’s office, and a stairway.

  There’s only one door at the top of the stairs. I knock on the door, say, “Alice, it’s me, Cantor.”

  I hear the click of the lock. Alice opens the door. She’s wearing the purple dress. Peg didn’t mention that it’s velvet, or that it fits Alice like a second skin, except where the bodice reveals plenty of Alice’s own skin. She’s smiling like she’s happy to see me, and then confirms it by sliding her arms around my neck, pressing her body against mine and lifting her face to kiss me. It’s a helluva kiss, deep and probing, like she’s trying to find the taste of anyone who’s ever kissed me before and replace it with only the taste of her. I like the way she tastes, and I like her body against me, like her heat, but I know too much now about the con artist Alice Lamarr née Letherby to trust that the taste won’t turn sour.

  I pull away from the kiss, walk past Alice and into the small room Peg’s tricked out with a bed, a hotplate on top of a small white metal cabinet next to a refrigerator, a white kitchen table, and a couple of chairs covered in yellow vinyl. The shaded lamp on the bedside table throws a weak arc of light along the cracked and faded peach-colored walls. Peg uses the place sometimes after the club closes. She has her reasons, and I don’t ask.

  Alice says, “What’s wrong, Cantor? You look like you’d rather kill me than kiss me.” There’s a laugh in her voice, but it’s a nervous one.

  “I don’t want to kill you, Alice, not unless you give me an excuse.”

  “If you’re trying to be funny, it’s not working.”

  “All right,” I say, taking two glasses from the cabinet, “let’s both stop joking.” I bring the glasses to the table, pour shots of Chivas into each glass. “Have a seat, Alice. I’m going to ask you some questions. You’re going to give me straight answers and I’m going to try very hard to believe you.”